light up dark rooms
by Mikkeneko
Summary: In all the Nine Realms, there are very few that would come to aid and comfort Loki Laufeyson. But there is at least one. Thor & Loki h/c. No spoilers.


**Title**: light up dark rooms (or darken light ones)

**Rating**: T

**Warnings: **Loki angst, nightmares, cuddling.

**Author's Note: **_Hey guys I'm back. _This was wirtten as a birthday gift, but also a way to try to get back into the swing of Brodinson feels ;-;

The title comes from a line in **Carmilla:** _but dreams come through stone walls, light up dark rooms, or darken light ones, and their persons make their exits and their entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths._

* * *

he does not remember how he came to be here

he looks up and he recognizes this room; it is the hall of judgment in asgard, where the all-father lays down his sentences. his arms are bound in front of him, and chains clink and hang from his arms, his ankles, and his neck. the hall is full of bodies, lining the walls and crowding the gallery, come to see justice done. a hundred pairs of eyes stare down on him, mocking, accusing; another criminal brought to justice.

but he does not remember why he's here.

It's all a blur in his head, a mushy darkness when he tries to think back on it. He does not remember what he's done, but from the way the All-Father glares down at him, he knows it must be terrible, terrible.

Odin rises to his feet, tall and terrifying at the judge's podium, and raises Gungnir in one hand. "Loki Laufeyson," he intones. "For the magnitude of your crimes, which are beyond forgiveness or grace, you are removed from the citizenship of Asgard and the Nine Realms. From this day forth you have no kin, no title, and no protection from the full consequences of your actions. You shall reap the full harvest that you sowed, and the Tree shall smile to see justice done upon you."

He wants to protest. He wants to speak in his defense, but he cannot. He is gagged, his mouth sealed shut and muzzled, and no sound makes its way out. All the legendary power of his words, and what good do they do him now? What use is lies if they are not heard? What use is persuasion if none will listen?

Odin pauses, the silence throbbing in the heavy chamber. "If there is anyone amongst those gathered here who will speak in defense of the accused, now is the time," he said, addressing the throng of silent, immobile figures. "If there is any argument to be made for his innocence, or plea to be made for clemency, if there is any one person who will speak on behalf of Loki Laufeyson, let them now speak."

No one speaks. A world of assembled notables and not one of them has a word of fondness or pity to spare for him. In all the universe he has no allies, no friends, no lovers, no family - not one person who will brave the odds to rise to his defense. No one.

Or if there are, they did not bother to come.

"The sentence will be carried out immediately." Odin raises his spear and slams it against the ground, ringing out loudly in the chamber of judgment. Around them, the chamber seems to melt, the sky bleeding upwards as they shift to a place outdoors. Above them, the Void howls, and the sky glows red. All around them is dark.

The crunch of shovels biting into dirt reaches his ears, and as Loki turns around he sees the gaping pit that has been dug into the ground. It is for him, he realizes. He tries to struggle, but finds himself paralyzed with chains and ropes even more than before: his arms are crossed over his chest and bound there, his legs strapped together, and his eyes have been sealed shut. His eyes are sealed shut but he can still somehow see, and he can see the stern expression on Odin's face as he comes closer.

"It's for your own good, Loki," Odin said. His stolid and looming visage wavers and fluxes, sliding from the golden skin of the All-Father into the leering, grinning, red-skinned face of the Mad Titan and back again. Loki does not know which is worse. "You'll appreciate it soon."

_No! No, I won't! _Loki wants to shout, but he can't, for he was still muzzled and gagged. He struggles helplessly, futilely, as faceless guards grab his arms and guide him towards the pit, lowering him on his back in the deep, narrow hole. Metal walls loom up on every side, forming the edges of his casket. Looking up from the bottom of the pit he can see a thin slice of red-glowing sky, lined with dark silhouetted figures looking down on him, and he understands at last what his sentence is to be. Not execution, no. Not even some dark dungeon far under the palace, with only uncaring automatons or mindless vermin to be his company; no, _this _is to be his prison.

He will be buried beneath the dark ground for all eternity, unable to move, unable to scream, unable even to die.

One of the dark silhouettes at the edge of the pit tips up a canister, and a brown cascade tumbles down into the pit and engulfs him. To his horror, it is not mere earth, soft and wet and engulfing, but instead a mass of some kind of insect. A shiny-brown scarab that scuttles and scurries over his helplessly bound flesh. They fill the constrained space of his tiny prison and swarm over him in a wave, insatiably hungry, clawing and biting and gnawing and devouring.

A heavy metal lid slab slowly blocks out the light, descending into the pit to cap the grave and seal Loki in his torment forever. Loki tries to scream, to beg for mercy, terror and despair beyond all pride and all endurance, but even that release is denied to him -

* * *

Loki shudders awake.

The shadowed dimness of the bedroom is disorienting at first; he lies stock-still with his pulse racing, still feeling the many-legged insects crawling over his skin, eyes straining against the dark.

But he _can_ see, sees the shadowed corners of their bedroom, the faint soft illumination cast in the corner by Thor's cell phone where it sits on the charger. The mattress beneath him is soft and yielding, no iron casket, and the sheets tangled around him are not iron chains. And he is not alone: he can hear the heavy, slightly raspy not-quite-snores of his brother from the pillow that lies beside his own.

He sits up, still shaking with the last remnant of the nightmare. He knows _where_ and _when_ he is now: in the Midgardian apartment he shares with Thor, their place of sanctuary and ceasefire. Though in the day they may go their separate ways in the world, and may never meet except by chance on opposing side on the battlefield, at night they know they can always return here and be safe.

But in the lingering aftermath of the dream, even their safe haven does not feel very safe. Not when shadows and figments can pursue him even here, give him no peace and no rest even here. His treacherous eyes conjure mirages of many-legged insects in the shadow, and he can still feel them even now. Still feel their legs on his skin, their cruel mouths digging under it and burrowing into his flesh. He wraps his arms around his chest, rubbing his palms up and down his bare arms to try to rid himself of the sensation.

Behind him: a hitch in the breathing, a shifting of weight that makes the mattress shift and yaw. "Brother?" a hoarse, sleepy voice calls out from the shadows. "Are you awake, Loki?"

"No, I always sleep sitting up on the edge of the mattress" Loki replies acidly. He hates being asked to validate the obvious. "What does it look like, fool?"

Thor doesn't reply, but the bedframe creaks as he leans over to turn on the bedside lamp. Golden light floods the room, banishing the shades and illusions of insects. Thor sits up, turning to face Loki. "Another nightmare, brother?" Thor asks somberly.

Loki turns to look at his brother. Thor is puffy-eyed, his blonde hair sleep-mussed, but his expression is intent and serious. He must be tired; his days are filled with heavy burdens and adventures as exhausted by Loki's, although he sleeps considerably the better for them.

Or would, if Loki did not insist on waking him with nightmares. Thor is awake now; now that he has sensed Loki's distress, he will not just roll over and go back to snoring. No matter if Loki tells him... "It was nothing."

"It was hardly nothing, you're shaking like a leaf and your skin is clammy." Thor says, leaning over across the tangle of blankets to pull Loki into an embrace. Loki allows himself to lean into the hug, telling himself that there is no use in trying to resist; Thor is an avalanche when he's in a mood to fuss. "What did you dream about?"

"It doesn't matter," Loki tells him. It's a lie and they both know it, just as Loki knows that Thor will not let him go until he tells him what's wrong. Just as Thor knows that Loki does not want him to.

So he opts to lie instead with a partial truth, revealing at least the less-distressing part of the dream. "I... was back at Asgard, in the hall of judgment. I... I was on trial."

Silence for a moment, with Thor gently rubbing the back of Loki's shoulders. He shifts around to get better leverage and runs his hands down Loki's back, pushing firmly between Loki's shoulder blades and beside his spine, then running his fingers lightly back up again before repeating the soothing stroke. "No one spoke for me," Loki says at last. "Fath... the All-Father even asked if anyone would speak for me... if anyone would plead for mercy for me... and no one did."

A rumble sounds in Thor's chest, a dissonant hum of disagreement. "You know that would never happen, Loki," Thor chides gently. "I would speak for you. I would always speak for you."

"You can't promise that," Loki mumbles.

"I _can,_" Thor insists. "No matter what the crimes, no matter how dire the trial, I swear that I will always speak on your behalf."

Loki presses his forehead against Thor's shoulder with his eyes squeezed shut, and says still can't remember what happened in the dream before it brought him to trial in Odin's hall; but he knows there was no bearded face, no blond head over a bright red cape looking out from the crowd. Only an aching void, and a horrible, all-consuming sense of wrongness and guilt.

_I think I was on trial for killing you, _Loki does not say.

But Thor must hear it anyway, or he must hear something, because his breath catches and hands stutter and falter in their steady path. A moment later they're back again, and Loki is pulled crushingly tight against Thor's chest. His hands dance over Loki's arms and hands, heated palms and strong fingers chasing away the feel of phantom insects on his skin.

"I _would_ speak for you," Thor insists. "Nothing could stop me. Not even death itself could keep me from your side, should you need me. Do you know, Loki, there's a play that they have here on Midgard, called _Hamlet,_ about this young man who - it is by a bard called Shakespeare, he is held much in esteem by my fellow Avengers, he has written -"

"I know who Shakespeare is, Thor," Loki says, amused and annoyed at once. "I knew about him centuries ago, in fact."

"Well, anyway, there is this play called _Hamlet,_" Thor forges on, "where the young man's slain father comes back as a ghost in order to warn him about a plot by his uncle. Just as death could not keep the old king from passing a warning to his son, Hel itself could not hold me back. I would show up to your courtroom in rags and tatters, in order to argue your case."

Loki buries his face against the side of Thor's neck and takes several deep breaths, inhaling the comforting, familiar scent of his brother and trying to keep a grip on his tears. Always, always for him, there has been Thor - at his brightest and his darkest, there was Thor. Even if he has no one else in this universe - no kin, no allies, no friends, no lovers - he will always have his brother.

Unless he kills Thor, of course. He has tried before, in the past. He may try again, someday when the fury and frustration drives him into fits of madness, when Thor's presence or even his mere _existence_ trammels Loki like a wild beast in a hutch, his entire universe constrained up against the boundaries that are defined by Thor. When all he has ever or will ever accomplish is reduced to a gracenote on Thor's life, all his powers and all his accomplishments measured only by the standard of his brother.

Yet no matter how hard he were to try to slay Thor, Loki simply cannot conceive of what it would be like to _succeed._ In a world without Thor he would be truly unfettered, without limits or boundaries... or a ground or a sky, only an endless fall into boundless darkness. Yes, he would be free then; free, and empty, and utterly alone.

_Be strong, Thor, always;_ Loki wishes, pressing his lips against the pulse of Thor's neck. _Stronger than tides, stronger than storms, stronger than Death itself. And no matter what dreams come: always be stronger than me._

* * *

~the end.


End file.
